


The Best Day of My Life

by asuralucier



Series: (You're Gonna) Find Another Life to Live [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Bruce Angsts, But Bruce doesn't see it that way for reasons, Everyone Angsts except for maybe Dick, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Angsts, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, This probably counts as Bruce holding Jason hostage, Trick or Treat: Very Late Trick(ish), ambiguous ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22423093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Bruce (attempts to) look after Jason.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Series: (You're Gonna) Find Another Life to Live [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614292
Comments: 6
Kudos: 88
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2019





	The Best Day of My Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ictus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/gifts).



> General Disclaimer: I...don’t think a film can adequately encapsulate what like 500 pages of comics canon, even if it had the best of intentions. But I did like the film, and I tried to osmose some other things via Wikipedia - please take this as an umbrella apology if something is way out of order. 
> 
> To ictus: I don’t really DC but you’re like THE BEST, so I hope you enjoy this even a little. Thanks for making my little fandom life so much fun!

After the dissolution of Black Mask’s network and the Joker’s return to Arkham, things are oddly quiet around the city. Of course, petty crime doesn’t sleep and propagates itself at all hours, but Nightwing is out there now, even if Batman isn’t. 

Presumably, Red Hood is too, somewhere. Bruce thinks, for longer than he should have, of _I'm not talking about killing Penguin or Scarecrow or Dent. I'm talking about him, just_ him _. And doing it because...because he took me away from you,_ of how his batarang must have mangled Jason’s arm when the gun jammed, of all Jason’s other injuries that pure adrenaline probably has allowed him to ignore up to that point.

And of course, Bruce thinks of all the black market doctors that Batman has helped put in jail lately and he has to do a mental tally of who’s all that’s left. Whoever he is, it’s going to be the best out of a sorry bunch. Which is to say, not much. 

That’s how Alfred catches him, staring morosely at Jason’s old Robin costume, still in its pride of place in the Batcave. 

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice sounds behind him, but at a practical distance. Bruce knows that if he turns around now and takes a swing, his butler will be just out of the range of his arm. “Perhaps you weren’t able to give Master Jason the answer that he wanted to hear, but you don’t have to abandon him for the second time.” 

“I didn’t abandon him, Alfred,” Bruce says, “Jason is the one who...he’s forsaken everything that I ever taught him. He’s twisted his talents in order to do some terrible things. He’s no better than the criminals I once taught him to fight.” 

Alfred doesn’t give an inch. Even though Bruce doesn’t remember asking for refreshments, Alfred has brought down a light supper on a tray anyway. He says, “And it is your fault.” It’s not an accusation, just a resounding invocation of the thought that’s been swirling inside Bruce’s head. Bruce can’t exactly say why, but it’s calming. Alfred likely means it to be. 

“Yes.” Bruce nods. “I suppose it is.” 

Bruce starts by tracking late night break-ins at a few pharmacies. No detail is too small: the quantity of medication taken; what kind of dressing; even that these break-ins usually take place after the employees have long gone home. The crimes go unreported, because whoever the perpetrator is, they’ve left some form of payment near the register, even if it’s not the whole amount. It’s almost like Jason doesn’t want to cause trouble. Bruce hasn’t taught him that exactly, but Bruce Wayne is a man well acquainted with lies, especially ones that he tells himself.

And then from there, it’s easy. Bruce triangulates the locations of the three most recent pharmacies, works up a comfort zone of about ten square miles. Part of it is extrapolation, plain and simple: Jason is not exactly mobile; he won’t want to go far, and the Narrows is a good place to be when somebody wants to keep a low profile while they’re in some kind of trouble. 

Bruce hears the tell-tale _pop_ of a gun going off, and holds his breath.

Then a familiar voice says, “Fuck.” A thump follows, maybe a foot nudging a body. 

Bruce emerges from his hiding place and surveys the scene. There is something vaguely antiseptic in the air, along with the usual. “Did you mean to do that? I assume the man had some medical training that you were hoping to use to your advantage.” 

The scene: Jason, Jason not being very well, and a freshly dead body by his feet, given that there’s a bullet through the back of his skull. 

“Maybe I did,” Jason grits out; he drops the gun that he’s holding, and it just about looks intentional. There's a bit of a shake to Jason's voice, but control is ever important, so he keeps in control. “The fuck are you doing here?” 

Bruce doesn’t have an answer for that. At least, not one that he’d want to voice for prosperity, or for Jason’s benefit. “It’s been three weeks. Clearly, you’ve not been taking it easy.” 

It takes Jason a lot to bend, to grip, to aim the pistol in Bruce’s direction with his good hand. For the moment, Jason isn’t wearing his mask, which is jarring for Bruce. For a moment, he thinks - but no, absolutely not. “Come a step closer, and I’ll shoot. You’ve made a choice, Bruce, you don’t get to wallow in this...whatever the fuck middle moral ground that you think you have with m -” 

If there’s one thing that Bruce has been counting on, it’s that Jason’s grievances towards him have hardly lessened. They’ve no doubt grown, to have reached a fevered pitch. Bruce moves, lightning fast, and he knocks the gun out of Jason’s hand and digs a fist into his side. Jason’s eyes widen, and he makes a grab for Bruce before he crumples, like a snapped reed. But this time, Bruce doesn’t let him fall. 

It’s not the best start, and certainly not Bruce’s proudest moment as Batman, or a human being, but it’s something. 

The first time Jason comes to, he hurls an expensive vase sitting on the end table beside the bed at Alfred’s head and Bruce has him restrained. 

“Are you all right?” 

Alfred’s quiet disapproval doesn’t have words, but it radiates like the smell of antiseptic still clinging to Bruce’s skin, even though he’s showered recently. 

“I should be offended by that question, Master Bruce.” 

Bruce opens his mouth and then closes it. He manages, finally, “Sorry.” 

It’s nearly dinnertime, but Bruce gives Alfred the rest of the evening off anyway, and his butler only makes the most nominal of protests. They’ll start fresh again tomorrow. 

Instead, Bruce calls Dick and asks if he’d like to share some Chinese. He’s aware that this is out of character, so it’s not entirely surprising that Dick shows up with more than Chinese. The younger man deflates, but mostly with relief. He does a great job of not asking questions - it’s not as if Bruce hasn’t trained him well in following orders. He’s learned a few lessons too, but maybe not the right ones. 

Dick rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling when a loud crash sounds from upstairs. 

“Something you’re not telling me?” 

It’s a bit of a joke, really. Bruce is happier than he’s ever been, that Dick Grayson has it in him to stomach both crimefighting and a sense of humor that isn’t strictly tied to the gallows. That’s not something that can be taught, it’s innate. 

Bruce picks halfheartedly at a piece of fried shrimp before craning his neck up the ceiling too. Come to think of it, Jason hasn’t had dinner. Sure, he has an IV drip installed in him for the last forty-eight hours to help him stave off starvation, but it’s not quite the same. 

Bruce says, “...Jason Todd is upstairs. He tried to hurt Alfred when he regained consciousness. I thought it better to have him restrained. So that he isn’t a danger to himself or others.” 

Dick, having just drank a mouthful of cola, accomplishes a feat absolutely fit for a man who is part of a traveling circus. First, Dick puffs out both of his cheeks, like a squirrel, and then he gurgles like a fish to keep anything from spewing out of his mouth. It’s only after that, that he swallows. “ _Jason Todd_ , is upstairs. Like, in Wayne Manor, restrained, because he tried to kill Alfred. Even for you, Bruce, that’s.” 

“Don’t start.” Bruce cuts him off, but the damage is already done. There’s also the matter of the fact that Jason wouldn’t have killed Alfred. Bruce has reasonable faith in that, even if he can’t completely put it into words in Dick’s presence. 

“O-kay then,” Dick reaches and spears a fat dumpling from an oil-soaked carton with a fork. It’s kind of like somebody’s spleen bursting open. “Suit yourself.” 

After dinner and some small talk about a series of break-ins in the Fashion District, Dick leaves him to it. Dick doesn’t ask to see Jason, and why would he? Jason is Jason, not exactly an exhibit to be gawked at. Besides, Dick is not unfamiliar with Bruce and his problems. Jason is - 

Jason is different. 

Bruce unlocks the door to Jason’s room, and braces himself for a fight. He has a plate of warmed over Chinese in hand, but Chinese is more Dick’s thing and not Jason’s. 

Still, beggars can’t be choosers. Something that Jason has never really learned. Jason’s always thought a man has a choice. Bruce has tried to tell him that he’s wrong. Maybe it’s high time he (Bruce) gives up.

“My God, it’s you. I thought I saw Alfred, earlier.” 

Jason is laid to rest on a large four poster-bed. A heart monitor and an IV drip to his right, an empty end table to his left. 

“You’re septic,” Bruce says, “but you’ll live. I’ll look after you.” 

“You have no fucking _right_ ,” Jason spits. But he doesn’t struggle against his restraints, not anymore. He’s probably tested them for weakness hundreds, if not thousands of times in the last few days. “What the _fuck_ , Bruce.” 

Bruce soldiers on. “I brought you some dinner. I know you don’t like Chinese, but it’s what Dick brought. He really likes it.” 

“Oh, yeah. My replacement.” 

“I didn’t replace you,” Bruce says. “It’s not like that.” 

“You call him Robin; he brings you fucking Chinese food because it’s his _thing_ ,” Jason quips tightly. 

“He’s not your replacement because he isn’t _you_ ,” Bruce bites out. 

Jason’s mouth, seemingly held slack because there’s a bruise that refuses to heal right at the left corner, seeping into a scar scratched deeply into his jaw, almost cutting bone, twists into something that nearly reminds Bruce of the Joker. Bruce doesn’t recognize the injury, but three weeks is a long time in the Narrows, especially if a man is less than a hundred percent. It’s what Bruce has to tell himself; Jason is not a hundred percent. He needs help, even if he doesn’t know it yet. 

“I think you’re missing the point of replacements, Bruce.” 

Bruce refuses to be baited. “I think you’re missing the point of bedrest. Your heart rate’s gone up.” Then, he looks between the heart monitor, and the plate of Chinese takeout still in his hands. “I’ll untie your hands so long as you don’t do anything stupid with them. So you can eat.”

“That is very kind of you,” Jason says, though his tone implies the opposite. 

That’s fine, Bruce thinks, he doesn’t mean to be kind anyway. 

The elevator to the Batcave goes and Bruce’s first instinct is to throw a punch. It’s not Alfred; it’s not Dick, so it’s -

“Man, this place even smells the same. Which is to say, terrible.” 

“It’s underground,” Bruce says, though it’s not really an answer. He watches Jason very carefully as the man limps to an empty chair next to where Bruce is sitting. He’s wearing some of Dick’s old clothes, and they almost fit, but not quite. Just a touch too short, and Bruce can see the red rings around Jason’s wrists. “Alfred let you out of bed?” 

“I smiled at him real nice.” Jason tilts his head back, gives Bruce a version of his nice smile. “No, I didn’t. He said it would be good for me to get some exercise. Suggested here. I wonder why.” 

“Why?”

“You’re not going to let me outside,” Jason says. “I tried all the doors. And windows. And that one loose floorboard that I know about.” 

“Just look at you.” Well, Jason’s the one that opened the door. Bruce has to admit, the young man is looking better. There’s color to his cheeks now and he’s gained a little weight, but not nearly enough, considering the circumstances. “You wouldn’t last five minutes outside.” 

“I could surprise you,” Jason says, “I did, once.” 

Bruce doesn’t say anything. Then he says, “Maybe more than once.” 

Jason’s expression twitches, then stills again. Then he swivels his chair around, stops. Bruce follows his gaze after a moment at the Robin costume. 

“It was the best day of my life.” Jason’s voice is softer now, as if he’s gone away, near enough so that Bruce can still hear him but far enough that he can’t reach. “When you gave me that. I thought I was going to be better. That my life was going to change.” 

“It’s changed,” Bruce says, but suddenly he isn’t so sure. “Hasn’t it?” 

“In my old life, I was a prisoner.” Jason stands, pushing himself up with the cane that Alfred has lent him. “I didn’t have a damn choice about anything. And now.” 

“I’m not keeping you here,” Bruce says, because of course he isn’t. Locked doors, locked windows, floorboards glued to newly filled concrete. Those sort of things would never have stopped Jason before. 

Jason laughs, a singular sound, like a bullet being released from the chamber of a gun. “Alfred also wanted me to tell you that it’s dinnertime.”

A little more than a week later, Jason asks to see his grave. This surprises Bruce, but only for a minute. Jason, reliably, takes Bruce’s hesitation the wrong way. 

“I do have one, right?” Jason studies him narrowly. “You did bury me? I did have a funeral and everything?” 

“You mean you don’t know?” 

Jason is wearing his own clothes today. Or, not exactly, they’re not his, yet, but they will be, once he wears them more than once. And at least they’re not Dick’s clothes. “What do you think I am, some sort of creep?” 

“You were always curious and you liked to surprise me,” Bruce says. “No, not some sort of creep.” The curtains are open, but the sky outside looks a white gray, with clouds heavy and low. He gets to his feet. “Come on, if you’d like, we can go see your grave.” 

Jason’s grave has been freshly disturbed. Of course it has. If Jason wants to disturb it again, he’d find a coffin, but not a body inside. Somehow, it doesn’t seem right. 

Jason stands close to Bruce, but not too close. He also stands upright, without the help of a cane. He bends, buries his fingers in the slightly damp dirt, gathers a fistful, and lets the lump fall, obvious fingermarks preserved in the mold. 

“Sometimes,” Jason mumbles, but still loud enough that Bruce can hear him, “I think I should have stayed dead.” 

Bruce feels his breathing tighten, air not really getting through. “Don’t say that. I wouldn’t have stood for it.” 

“But you did,” Jason points out. The bruise near the corner of his mouth is healing, but it’ll need more time. A lot more time. Still, he knows how to snarl in the most unpleasant way and of course, Bruce can’t help but watch. Jason is somebody who makes displeasure into a real art. “You buried me; you eulogized me. Or Alfred did.”

“Alfred did,” Bruce says.

“Of course he did.” 

Bruce nudges a bit of dirt away from Jason’s plaque.

“And, and -” Jason speaks in a rush, as if he’s afraid to lose the upper hand in this fight, or no. Jason Todd is not a man who is afraid. He’s simply a man who doesn’t want to lose an advantage as it has come to him. Consequences be damned. “You must have taken a beating with the media, yes? But still here you stand. In front of my fucking grave, refusing to let me out of your sight.” 

“I don’t want you to die,” Bruce says. He’s not going to speak about the other thing because there’s nothing to say about it. 

“That’s not up to you.” 

“But maybe it is.” Bruce grips a fistful of Jason’s collar and he’s surprised at the lack of resistance on Jason’s part. Jason's recovering, but he's not _weak_ , so it's got to be a lack of resistance. Bruce's been geared up to fight Red Hood for long enough that he forgets. But then Jason’s mouth meets his almost unexpectedly in a clash of teeth and tongue, that it’s nearly familiar.

Just like a fight.

“So where do we go from here?” Bruce asks. A pause stretches and snaps, and he finds himself not daring to speak louder than a whisper. What he and Jason have right now, is flimsier than a piece of glass. Perhaps it’s never been more than that, but for once, Bruce doesn’t want to dig any deeper. 

“Beats me,” Jason says, and it’s like he really doesn’t know, because Bruce can hardly glean any truth in his expression, mere inches away. “But you know, I was being honest that once, that it was the best day of my life.” 

Bruce nods. He turns his face away from Jason, towards the sun peeking through just above their heads. “I believe you.”


End file.
